


From Nothing

by Corilyn_Winchester



Series: Single Sheet Stories [2]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Deaf Character, Deaf Clint Barton, Gen, Underage Drinking, Violence, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2018-04-06 00:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 18,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4200294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corilyn_Winchester/pseuds/Corilyn_Winchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Clint Barton joins SHIELD its either that or jail, so the choice is easy. He's cocky, but then again, he has good reason to be. He only got caught because the cops came after him when he was just trying to buy a hot dog, so what if he crossed through a 'No Trespassing' lot to get to the vendor.<br/>Its a series of events that will change his life, and it all started with waking up with a headache and thinking he could go a day without his hearing aids, because again, all he wanted was a damn hot dog.<br/>Turns out, that headache and that hot dog, they probably saved his life.</p><p>Part of the Single Sheet Stories series, although it does not fit into the other story in the series, and it is unnecessary to read that first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Peoria

**Author's Note:**

> Phil Coulson and Maria Hill were sent to pick up a possible asset from a jail in Peoria. What they find is a kid that's barely 17, angry, confused, and hanging on to life by a thread. 
> 
>  
> 
> This work is part of a series of stories that are first written on single pieces of paper than typed, each chapter is one sheet and that is the challenge of it, fitting a point into one page.
> 
> A/N: Not beta'd and of course I don't own it, if I did we would have a black widow movie and a Hawkeye movie and more of Matt Murdock

    They find him in a jail in Peoria, Illinois. He’s smaller than they expected, barely 5 foot 7 and skinny to an extent. Its hard for them to believe that this the man they have been chasing. The man that reports say has a dozen kills, hits really, to his name, and three dozen more that may have been him but weren’t confirmed.

He’s a child.

    That's what hits the first person who enters the interrogation room. Its not exactly true of course, he’s just young, a teenager really, maybe 16 or 17 years old. They don’t have much on him, just a codename and a face, but nothing hits in facial recognition and he doesn’t leave prints. When his mug shot hit the databases it set off alarms.

    “He hasn’t said anything since we brought him in. Won’t give us a name, but we got that from his prints. Came back as a” The cop pauses and looks down at the file in his hand. “Clinton Francis Barton 17, from Iowa. Hit came from Child Protective Services, he’s still under them technically, but they haven’t seen him in almost 7 years.” The cop sets the file down on the table and blue eyes flick up to the two men, one uniformed and one in a suit. 

    “What are the charges?” The eyes watch him, the blonde’s head tilts, as if he is going to say something, but nothing comes out. His expression stays the same. Curious but guarded.

    “Trespassing and resisting arrest. He’s lucky that we aren’t slapping him with assault on an officer.” The eyes stay locked on the suited man. 

    “Thank you officer. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to talk with Mr. Barton alone.” The officer nods and leaves the cinder block room.

    “So, this meeting has been a long time coming, Hawkeye.” He opens the file, the bright blue eyes still trained on his face. “Why are you being so uncooperative? If you talk, maybe I can help you.” He pulls a pen from his pocket and turns the page on the file. “You were...8, when your parents died. You have a brother, a Charles Bernard, same last name. Is this information correct?” There’s no movement from the other man, except a slight shifting of his expression, from defiance to confusion. “Okay then, moving on.” He turns the page again. “Hmm, medical history. Let’s see...lots of healed stuff, but I’m guessing you were an active child. A head injury at 6, there’s no follow up here for it. Pretty sporadic actually, and you vanished when you were in the system for only 2 years.” Another page. “Special circumstances? Never seen this before. Child under care of Iowa CPS...circumstances that prove to be hindrance to adoption….oh my God. Moderate hearing impairment. You don’t know what I’m saying do you?” He looks up, straight at the boy and he see’s the confusion spill away, the eyes flick to his lips when he turns his head and the younger man gives a small shrug, a nervous nod. 

     The suited man closes the file and flips it over, hands the blank back page and the pen over. Handcuffed hands grab at the pen, fumble slightly as he spins the folder and takes the pen in his left hand.

    -What do you want?- The letters are clear and precise, better than expected from someone with no formal education past age 10.

     -Can you talk?- His plans have to change, he was sent to collect a possible asset, not a kid that would have no chance in the field. 

    -Don’t like too. Can though.- The paper passes back and forth, the pen slid across the table. 

    -How well?- This time there’s a pause before the pen scratches over the file.

    -Good enough to pass. Why?- He bites his lip, twitches his fingers and grabs the pen again. -Get me my aids and we can have this conversation the right way.-

     -My name is Phil Coulson, I’d like to offer you a job.- He scrawls in neat cursive and is rewarded with a smirk.

**       -When do I start?-   
**


	2. Motels and Sounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil Coulson takes the teenaged asset back to the motel to get his things, they have a conversation and some things are cleared up.
> 
> Most of all, Phil realizes that this kid has been looking after himself for way to long, and deserves a hand in all this.

 

 The officer re-enters the room after Agent Coulson finishes his conversation with Barton. He unlocks the cuffs and the teenager stands, nodding his head in thanks.

    -Where were you staying?- Phil types quickly on his phone and then hands it over.

    -Motel off 3rd and Main.- He passes the phone back and taps one of his ears tentatively.

    “Yes. You can get those.” He wants to know how good of a lip reader the kid is. There’s a thankful sigh and nod. “Agent Hill?” He stays with his face towards the asset, allowing him the view he needs to keep up with the conversation, and it's harder than he expects.

    “Coulson? We ready to head back to base?” She’d been outside of the jail, on the phone and then monitoring another Agents feed in the car, she’d re-entered the building when Phil texted her.

    “Almost, we need to stop by a motel off of 3rd and Main on the way.” He motions for Clinton to follow Maria and she nods at the statement, she trusts Coulson to not make a bad call with an asset collection, it is his specialty after all.

   The car ride to the motel is tense. The blonde sits, without his seatbelt on, and clutching the jacket and keys that had been taken from him at the jail. Hill pull into the motel parking lot and Phil opens the door (they only open from the outside, just in case the transport is violent). Barton stands, stretches his arms above his head and up on to his toes, and both agents notice the multitude of scars that mark his arms, some old and some new. He inclines his head toward the hallway and Phil gives the sign to go ahead (noticing that the kid is nervous about moving without prompting).

    They enter the room and Phil takes in the neatly arranged gear in the corner. If the facial recognition hadn’t been a 100% match, then the bow and quiver in the corner would have given away his identity. The teen goes straight to the side table, grabbing a black case and opening it to reveal two of the large clunky style hearing aids that Phil has seen a few times (mostly behind the ears of old people at Starbucks). He puts them in place, wincing slightly when he adjusts them and turns back to face Phil fully.

    “So. SHIELD huh?” His S’ have an odd hint to them. “I don’t like to talk when I can’t hear myself.” His T’s are inflected too hard, and his F’s whistle a bit. “My voice too messed up? You have that look about you, the one that says ‘oh, he’s damaged goods’.”

    “Actually, I was thinking the exact opposite. I was expecting you to have a more pronounced accent.” He sweeps the room with his eyes. “Grab your stuff and we’ll head out.”

    “If I talk slower, I can do it better.” The S sound is almost normal, and the T’s loose the extra force. “So, you want me for my skills as a hired hitter.” He slips back into quicker speech and cut sounds.

    “No, SHIELD wants you for your skills at avoiding detection. Your aim doesn’t hurt though. I need you to answer a few questions though.” The younger man stiffens.

    “What do you need to know?” He puts the black case in his pocket and walks toward the foot of the bed, keeping his head towards the SHIELD agent.

    “The most pressing issue is...unfortunately, your hearing loss. The fact that until now there was no indication of it does say a lot though. So, how bad is your hearing?”

    “The last time I got tested, when I got this pair.” He motions to his hearing aids. “Said my thresholds were about...50 decibels in my right and 65-ish in my left. I’ve still got some left, I’m not stone cold deaf, just hard of hearing. I could hear you talking in the interrogation room, but it didn’t make sense. Just noise to me.” He shrugs and puts the backpack on the bed, kneeling to put the bow and quiver in their case. “Is your boss going to get mad for you bringing home an archer who can’t hear himself talk without shit shoved in his ears?”

    “No, he’s fine with it. You speak English, that's an improvement over some of the assets I’ve brought in. The next biggest issue if your age.” The bow is disassembled and in its place, arrows in slots and the quiver being snapped into its own slot. He is meticulously organized, far more so than any teenage boy should be. “But we can overlook that, we’ve had younger.”

    “So? I know there’s something coming.” He’s carefully enunciating again, and Phil wonders idly if he even knows he’d doing it.

    “I need to know if a full medical exam will reveal anything.” The teen tilts his head, looking confused for a second.

    “What was that? I...uh..I looked away and missed some of that.” Although Phil’s features remain smooth, inside a piece of him breaks for the kid when he realizes how hard it must have been to make the life he has for himself. He’s young, and technically disabled (according to the CPS papers) and he seems to have trouble following spoken conversation, even with his hearing aids in place. So Phil repeats himself and sees tension roll across his shoulders.

  “ It might. I’ve had a few broken bones, a handful of head injuries. If you're asking about...other things, I’m clean. I don’t do drugs and I do not sleep around. I’m covered in scars, each has its own story. I did not give any of them to myself on purpose.” He stands up, pulling himself to his full (albeit short) height. “No promises, but no surprises either?” He sticks a hand out to shake on it and Coulson takes it. Feels the strong grip and years of callouses in that brief moment. “Ready.” **  
**


	3. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nice one are always the most dangerous, since you can't see them coming. It's better to just be wary of them from the beginning.

     Nick Fury was an intimidating man and he knew it, but that didn't mean that he had to be. When he see's the...Jesus Phil wasn't exaggerating when he said kid, getting processed in on the medical floor, he knows that intimidating is not the correct way to go about this.

     "So, I send you after an assassin and you bring back a scrawny kid?"

     "He's not that scrawny." Phil argues back lightly. "You've seen what he can do with a bow and arrow, so we know he's got muscle in that short stature."

     "Whatever. What's with the..." Fury makes a hook shape around his ear with a finger.

     "He's hard of hearing. Say's he not deaf but he was having trouble understanding me when he was faced away." Coulson shrugs and glances back to where Clint (and it had taken until 20 minutes ago to get the shortened name out of the kid) is filling out a medical history. "He has issues, its hard to see. Trust, seems to be hard for him. Authority...he was uncooperative to the point of near belligerence with the cops but he was fine with me, communicated as well as we could with what we had. I started being nice and he practically shut down. Wouldn't move unless me or Hill told him it was okay." He shakes his head slightly.

     "You're thinking abuse." Fury trains his gaze on his agent.

     "Yeah, I am. I'm thinking someone took advantage of this kid. He learned that no one, especially the nice ones, can be trusted, and I'm thinking that people used him, played off his disability to get him to do what they wanted him too. He didn't say a single thing until he got his hearing aids back, and even then, he only spoke when expected to." He had been almost shaking... minute trembles in his hands as they drove to the base.

     "Looks like you're needed in there." Fury tilts his head to the glass enclosed area, where a nurse is waving Phil in.

     "I'll give my full report later." And then he disappears through the doors. "Yes?" He questions the nurse that waved him in.

     "Barton wants you present, and to check his papers over? I don't know why." Phil nods and sits down next to the (his: he's beginning to label) asset.

     "Hey Phil. Think you could...just make sure that the stuff is where it should be?" He looks nervous again, and he's tapping his fingers in a pattern on the chair arm.

      "Sure." He takes the offered and quickly scans over it for blatant mistakes. "Under broken bones or fractures you put 'A shit ton' , think you could elaborate a little?" The blond shrugs and scratches at his left ear. 

     "Left arm once, right twice. Ribs...a few, don't know how many. Left ankle last year. Skull, probably. " Coulson raises an eyebrow at the kid, barely 17 and he's had more breaks than most adults.

     "Skull?" If he'd had a skull fracture it had to be correctly logged into SHIELD's files.

     " Well yeah. I thought you had this info?" He's back to the careful enunciation. "My hearing...thing is from a head injury. CPS knew, it should be in there." 

     "If it is, I didn't see it. What caused the head injury?" Phil had assumed the kid had been born hard of hearing and had just hoped it wasn't progressive.

     "I don't know. You know...concussions, it's pretty fuzzy. I know I was at home, then I was waking up in the hospital and I was nauseous and I couldn't hear shit. It got better, just not enough." He turns away, takes the clip board and carefully crosses out the questioned statement.

     "Agent Coulson, we need to borrow him for x-rays and an MRI." Its a different nurse from earlier. "Sir, do you have any metallic pins plates or screws?" She directs her question to Clint who shrugs and offers a noncommittal sound. "Then lets go with x-rays and a CT." She takes the clipboard and he follows her.

\--------------------------------------------

     "Six previous fractures that didn't heal right. Three separate skull fractures. Stress tears in the ligaments of both knees, damage to the left rotator cuff, and so many scars we had to use two sheets to document them all. He's been shot before, right should, through and through no major damage. Stabbed twice, once in the thigh and once in the bicep. We've scheduled an audiology test for an hour, he's probably going to need new hearing aids, especially with how inflamed his ear canals were at a glance. I don't think he was ever properly fitted. Oh, he also mentioned that when he was little he had 'that damn breathing issue', which I think was asthma? But he didn't know the name of it."

     "Damn, that's quiet a list. Thank you." Coulson takes the updated file, lets out a huff of air and walks into the exam. Barton looks up with the door opens and turns to face Phil. "Congrats. You aren't too broken."


	4. As I Stand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, it's been forever don't kill me. I've been....dealing with shit is a good way to put it. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading. If I'm super off on anything, let me know. I will totally try to fix it.

 Phil Coulson is (annoyingly) attached to the archer by the time his full physical happens. It's 2 days since he layed eyes on the infamous marksmen, and he knows that his asset is to be a lot of work. He knows the kid is going to go through handers like track stars go through shoes. He needs to setup a consult with psych to see if the kid can ever begin to qualify for fieldwork, since his anxiety seems so bad. But it could be situational, not all the time. He's going to have medical issues in the future, that a given. Not just because of the job and the strain and risk of it, but the miss aligned fractures and ligament damage he already has. Medical notes every scar and calcified fracture. They do a lung function test and confirm that while mild the teenage does have asthma. They label it irritant related and tell him not to smoke, to try not to suck down smoke or dust or sand. They make a note in his file and give him an inhaler just in case. Physically, Clint Barton is fine for field work.

"So, even with the problems you have, medical says that they can't hold you. And that means its time for the logistics of it all. Tomorrow is paperwork day." The file is back on Phil's desk.

"Okay." Over the 48 hours he has relaxed slightly around Coulson, but not enough to be considered comfortable. "Even with the lung thing?" Clint had said it hadn't been a thing in years, but Phil can tell by his worry that it's a lie.

"Yes, even with that. You'll be required to carry your inhaler in your kit, but other than that, it won't affect your status. If, at any point in time it begins to effect your ability to perform at what SHIELD deams an acceptable level, you will be pulled from active status until it's resolved. Same goes for injuries." Clint nods, rubs a hand over his left ear. "Comms might be fun with you."

"Because of my hearing? Or, lack there of." Phil has realized that however lacking his formal education is, Hawkeye is not stupid. He's well read,and he sees everything.

"About that, your new hearing aids came in. You've got an appointment in an hour to get them." The email said he'd be unavailable for a little bit, and had a side note to let Barton have a couple of hours to adjust to the new ones.

"Cool. Um, I didn't ask before, but....are they regular ones? Like these, or...weird ones that don't have the clunky part?" There had been minor email discussion of ordering nearly invisible ones, but Coulson had decided that since Clint had requested purple ones, he must want the over ears.

"Should be behind ear ones, in purple like you asked for." He nods, a flash of relief on his face.

"So um, when can I get my bow back? This is the longest I've gone without practice since I started." He fades into a mumble at the end.

"You have to take your psych eval first, then you'll have a range safety and marksmenship exam. After that your access card will be able to access the range and the gun case." Phil doesn't think for a second that the kid will fail his range test.

"Okay. Anything projectile or thrown I'm fantastic with." And there's the Hawkeye confidence. The smug smile,the off kilter laugh.

"Your reputation does precede you there. How's your hand to hand?" The teen stiffens slightly.

"I don't...I mean." He sighs. "I can throw a punch and take a hit,but I try to keep long range." His right hand clenches and relaxes a few times.

"Well, all the info we have says range is your calling. Is there any reason you specifically avoid hand to hand?" If it's fear, it could be a problem.

"I uh... it's... I get hit in the head, or jostled around... my hearing aids can fall out. It's harder to fight when I can't hear. I mean...I can, obviously. I fought the cops. But...I didn't know they were cops, I swear, they just...grabbed me from behind, started pushing me to the ground, I...I reacted." He's enunciating carefully again, speaking quietly.

"The assault charge was dropped. All of them were actually. The whole arrest would have been dropped, they didn't technically read you your rights, you were confused why you got arrested, no interpreter was present." The whole thing was a gold mine to a good lawyer. "Can I trust you to go the appointment? I have paperwork to do."

"Coulson, I've been waiting for new hearing aids for like...ever. I'm going."  


	5. First Report

  The psych report is a single full page stapled to a half sheet. It's one single page, and the declaration of whether Clinton Francis Barton, AKA Hawkeye, will ever be able to enter the field. The psychiatric department is the only one when the irrevocable power to ground people. The first thing that Phillip J. Coulson looks at is the footer bar. In that one inch bar, color coded, the future of his asset lies. It's green, but with two yellow lines through it. Passed, but restricted. And a full page too explain why. ______________________________________ Patient name: Barton, Clinton F.

Nature of Review: Required status check prior to full employment

Order of: Coulson, Phillip J.

Special Observations/instructions: -patient is reported HOH, use of HAs, face when speaking-possible anxiety disorder(pre observations) -possible situational muteness

Symptoms observed: -flexing of right hand -avoidance of eye contact (watches face, possible affect of deafness) -foot tapping

Admitted behaviors/history: -patient admits to social issues (anti possible a) -selective muteness when HAs inactive/absent -"I've had people beating the shit out of me my whole life"**

Red Flags: -child abuse- »»patient admitted to physical and emotional abuse as a child, in biological parents care and subsequently

-lateral scaring- »»possible self harm suggested by inner arm scaring. Patient says it is from working with a bow without gear, future scaring must be noted and investigated

-speech impediment/difficulties- »»some speech sounds are off (loss of hearing was post-lingual at age 6 as result of severe head injury) »»patient has ability to form all/most speech sounds, as observed anxiety increases speech improves (impediment lessens)

Diagnosis: - patient presents with symptoms of multiple disorders, further testing required to diagnose -at some level patient is positive for a level 2 anxiety disorder -possible ASD (testing needed)

Treatment: NA

Requests: - Stanford binet IQ -speech consult (low priority) -depression index -ASD scaling -differential abilities -beck anxiety

Status: RESTRICTED -No undercover -Psych monitoring -Max lv. 4 until notice ___________________________________

The stapled note is handwritten:

- _Phil your kid has something up with him, not sure what yet, but it's there. He's gearing up for a breakdown, not sure what kind of when, but it'll happen. That much tension and alertness can only be sustained for so long before it cracks. -Niko_

 _P.S. I might have to medicate him. At least temporarily._ ____________________________________

If medicated Barton would never move past Probationary Specialist. Phil couldn't have that,he wanted the young marksmen to progress to at least a level 5 Agent with specialist title. STRIKE teams needed people like Hawkeye.

      "We need to talk about your psych report." Coulson knows that Clint had to sign off on the report to play Phil getting it.

       "I'm not autistic." According to medical, with his new hearing aids, Barton should be able to understand speech as long as the person is in front of him. Phil wants to test that. " I know people think I am because of the social thing. But I'm not." It's solid, if the statement was a threat, Phil would be inclined to take it seriously.

      "Even if you are..." Coulson shrugs, watches the circus headliner adjust in the chair.

     "But really I'm not. The psychic in Carson's, her kid has aspergers, I'm nothing like him. The whole....born without the guide to life thing. My social issues stem from the fact that I'm pretty much deaf as shit, and 90% of people only see that, and the other 10% don't notice,and refuse to believe that I need to see your face to understand you. Especially if it's loud. It's not that I can't be interactive and social, it's that I choose not to be." He's slurring. The little under and over stressing of sounds. It's different. Clint is agitated, but not doing his 'better speech' thing.

     "Okay. That's not even what I was going to ask about." A little flash of confusion. "Dr. Hernandez said that you have an anxiety disorder. Do you agree with that?"

     "I don't know....I'm good in front of a crowd. But....I get the shakes sometimes, you've seen. But....I can calm down enough to stop most of the time. I've never had a problem when I've had my bow in my hands, or a knife." His eyes go downcast. "I'm amped up right now,which doesn't help. I uh.... it's been probably 7 years since I went this long without a weapon. New situation, new people, new expectations, noises I forgot where noises. Its a lot of stuff to take in."

     "You like knives?" Now he's got the psych report he can okay this.

       "Love 'em. Learned to throw before I learned to shoot." He means it, Phil can tell.

       "One second." He digs in his catch all drawer for a minute before pulling out a butterfly knife he'd taken from a probie over a year ago and never given back. "Here. All yours. No stabbing, slicing or threatening." Base knife rules. 

      "Oh cool. Thank you." He takes the knife in a way that shows he was taught properly how to handle one. A roll goes through his shoulders, like weight off of them. "Wow."

     "Better?" An unused knife and Phil can see tension leave his asset.

      "Yeah...didn't know it was that bad. Shit." He blinks a few times. "Like...Jesus, I'm fucked up." He's holding the knife still, like the pressure in his hand helps. Phil's pretty sure it does. 


	6. Its a show in the end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The test shows just how lethal this kid really is, but that's not the only thing it proves. It proves his potential.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why hello, don't kill me. I'm back, for real now. I've already got the next chapter started but I'm going through and updating all my neglected fic before I finish this one. You should expect another chapter with in the next 10-12 days, maybe less maybe more depending on my schedule next week. Its kind of hectic right now sorry.

The music is loud enough to vibrate the floor and the show going on on the range main floor is perfectly in time with the bass. It's a test, but the teen has turned it into a show. This is the Hawkeye that SHIELD has been after for years, the confident master marksmen that has yet to miss a target that they’ve seen. The light flash is set up on its highest level, little pin prick lasers flashing for split seconds each. Almost impossible to track, but yet he hits every single one. The music was his idea, he’d asked if they wanted a show or an exhibition, when answered with show he’d requested a backdrop. He targets, aims and releases as he’s targeting the next flash, almost before it lights up. Phil is actually fairly certain that he is predicting the next target zone,and so far, he hasn’t been wrong. It should be impossible, so should the bank shots that interlude every now and then. He’s already passed the time record on this range que up, but no one is going to stop him until he needs to or decides to.

It's interesting. It's fun to watch. He flips and slides, shoots backwards and in the middle of gainers, he’s been trained to treat his bow as an extension of his arm, not a weapon that is picked up and used. All the targets flash once and the music stops. 

He beat the computer.

There’s a slightly confused glance around and the teen slips the bow over his arm and reaches behind both ears, flicking back on his hearing aids.

“I thought you said you’d let me run the highest level?” He looks at the panel, Phil himself, Nick Fury and Maria Hill, along with Marcus Weaver the resident expert sniper. 

“How the hell did you do that?” Marcus whistles under his breath as he looks over the read out on the panel computer. “Seriously, who trained you?”

“A carnie named Trick.” A knowing smirk, it gives Phil hope. The kid isn’t completely lost to whatever is going on in his brain, he is confident when it counts, there was no hesitation on any of the shots and no nervousness in his stance now. “Can I try the harder one now? That set was pretty predictable after the first 10 or so flashes.” 

“Its computer randomized, and that was the highest level.” A raised eyebrow from the archer and an under breath curse from Marcus as Phil resets the course and all the arrows fall from where they were imbedded.

“Get your gear and get up here.” Fury is done with the games for now. He enjoyed the show almost as much as Phi did though, it's easy to read on his face and the cross armed stance he seems to love. 

\--------

“So, you’ve obviously passed your marksmanship evaluation. So here comes the real question: do you want to try to train for agent or proceed as a specialist?” Phil knows what the answer is, but he still has to ask. Psych may have said that Barton couldn’t become an agent yet, but that didn’t mean he could start the training now.

“What’s the difference?” Of course that would come up, he hadn’t actually explained the difference between the two types of employees at SHIELD yet.

“A specialist is an expert in one area, in your case marksmanship. You’d continue doing what you were doing before we picked you up, but only on targets we select. After a few years, or once we find a suitable replacement you’d be transferred to the training facility full time, teaching the next set of snipers. An agent however, undergoes rigorous training and testing. They excel in all aspects of the job, undercover, multiple language skill sets, they can transform into who they need to be in a split second. Agents, well they’re expiration date isn’t when we find someone better, it’s when the guys downstairs sign a death certificate or a retirement agreement.” No need to tell the kid that a retirement agreement could be a firing notice with a full black list wipe and tracker implantation. 

“You think I can make it as an agent?” He doesn’t sound scared or nervous, it’s a question and nothing more. The butterfly knife is spinning through his fingers while he leans back in the chair across from Coulson. 

“I think that you’ll have to work twice as hard as the last guy I sent through, but that you’ll come out of the training better for it.” It’s the truth, the language classes might be nearly impossible for Barton to pass, and the OC spray has the possibility of killing him, but Phil has seen the kid at work, and a specialist only title would be wasted on him.

“Then agent. I’ll do it.” 


	7. Sign Here

The stack of papers deposited on his desk makes a decently loud thump as it lands. The agent in front of Phil is none other than the language professor in charge at the SHIELD Operations academy, and also happens to be one Clint Barton’s advisor. 

“Phil, you didn’t warn me.” The look is sarcastic, and having known Chung Heng for over 5 years, Phil can say with absolute certainty that this isn’t a bad meeting. “I had to call in another instructor to conduct parts of his language eval. Me. I didn’t know the dialect.” 

“Well he’s got a speech...thing. He’s a little hard to understand sometimes.” Phil has also recently realized that the archer moves his finger into very deliberate shapes while speaking sometimes, like he’s spelling things out when he isn’t sure of something. 

“Well yes, but that much is obvious from a simple conversation with the kid. I documented 3 languages at full native level, another 2 at passable levels and get this-5 that he’s got pieces of, but not enough to hold a conversation more complicated than your average food order or bathroom break. Of course his accenting is all over the place with all but the 3, but still...it's crazy, especially with his history.” Well..that’s unexpected. And it makes Phil wonder why they hadn’t found this out sooner, even though they had suspected Hawkeye of being at least passably bilingual with the spread of his jobs. 

“What languages is he fluent in? And how are the other classes going?” Heng would go on for hours if Phil didn’t redirect him. 

“English, obviously. Russian and American Sign Language are the other two. I had to call in Jones from the third floor to eval his ASL. Spanish and French need work, especially in the accent areas, the low vowels are...bad, but he can read it and comprehend it at native level, so...there’s that. According to the sniper trainer he’s not getting anything out of the class and should be moved to where he needs work instead of practically teaching the instructor ways to pull off crazy shots. Tactics is good, he’s doing well..passing in all areas but excelling in big picture planning and escape route tagging. He’s having problems in the psych areas though, said he hasn’t actually passed his eval yet?”

“He’s got a retest and some additional testing next week that will determine if he even stays in the program to start with.” Phil is dreading that report, seeing if the Academy can train Barton or if he’ll drop to specialist training and fast track to the duty roster. 

“That’s what he told me. Oh, the physical preparation instructor finally got around to sending me the results of his test. He passed, not fantastically but he’s in shape enough. He thinks he can fix that, even out the upper body and cardio. He’s strong but too lean for it to all be put to good use.” Heng flips through the folder once more. “Also this, its a waiver request from the tactical training department. They need your permission to possibly kill him with the gas chamber.” Heng hands the sheet over from the top of the pile.

“They still have medical on standby for all the chamber runs right?” They had when Phil went through training. 

“Yes, and he’ll be wearing a red armband as an alert mechanism. Someone will see if it's bad.” There’s 3 others in Barton’s week group that will need the same arm band. It happens, if there’s any history of respiratory problems they get tagged at the chamber and OC spray test. 

“Good. What’s the update on hand to hand?” Another area of possible trouble for the archer. Coulson scrawls his signature on the waiver and hands it back.

“He’s being moved to the level 3 class. He isn’t nearly as bad as he told you he was, or he might think that he is.” Heng shrugs and sticks the paper back in the file.

“So, if he passes with psych he’ll be on track for missions in 4 months. Heng...what do you think of team possibilites with the kid?” He’d used to run STRIKE teams like the one Phil is slotted to build. 

“I can see it. In the future of course, but he isn’t...bad with others. He’s just awkward as all hell. If he can learn to blend, he could be a great undercover asset, especially with...Phil he notices everything. Have you realized that? He see’s everything. I can’t help but imagine him on the inside of a diplo crash mission, relaying all these details that he seems to just...catalogue. He told me within 5 minutes of meeting me that I was a natural lefty, but due to an injury to my dominant hand at a young age I became functionally ambidextrous, I carry my gun on my right because even though it's long since healed, I don’t trust the joint to hold up to the kick back. Told me that I’m obviously ex-military, he guessed Air Force, even though I try to cover it up with longer hair and a slight slouch. Then he smirked and told me to ‘prove him wrong’. “

“Yeah, he does that. Had me pegged as an east coaster within a day.” 

“So, he’s doing better than Hill’s newbies.” Phil smirks at that, always in a competition of sorts with the woman in the next office over. 


	8. The Truth, this time Please

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was written before the last chapter and was just minorly edited.  
> If there are any major discrepancies to be found let me know and I'll go back and rework it so it fits into the rest of the story.   
> There is one thing that I know is different between the last chapter and this one: Chamber vs. OC spray. While they are not the same thing, I'm leaving it bc I have a feeling SHIELD would totally pepper spray their agents and tear gas them (chamber) this chapter just focuses on the OC instead.

"Pepper spray is a crowd control device you are bound to run into at some point in time. That first, for many of you, experience will be today. Form up, and I will spray the lines." To say Clint is nervous would be a lie. He knows what happens when he comes in contact with pepper spray. The best he can hope for is to hold his breath and pray. A riot in Chicago a year ago had introduced him to the gas. And it set off his lungs like nothing else had. He'd also lied about that. His lungs freaked out a lot more often than he admitted to. He said that he had grown out of it, when really he'd grown into it. The first time he had trouble catching his breath had been in the circus. "Ready on field!" And the spray begins.

The first row of four trainees is gagging by the time the second row gets hit. All 28 people in the class get hit hard by the spray canister. Clint holds his breath the whole time, letting it out in a slow exhale once the lines have disintegrated and water has been indicated. Eyes burning, nose running. He takes a tentative breath in, off to the side, where the mist will have hopefully not gotten. It burns. Bad.

"All of you are currently experiencing the effects of the spray. This could  include difficulty seeing, breathing and a stinging sensation where the compound touched." His chest starts tightening up, its  getting harder to pull in air, and even harder to push it out. Rinsing his face helps his eyes, and he opens them to watch the other trainees gag and rinse. He starts coughing and black dots fill his vision before he can stop. "This spray is short acting, you should start feeling better in the next 5-10 minutes. Regular OC lasts 30-45 minutes, with minor symptoms lasting up to days. Be happy."

Ten minutes pass and the class has mostly returned from chaos, the 4 red arm banded people being stared at by the bored medic, Clint is good at hiding though, always has been. The instructor dismisses them. Clint walks, looking calm, around the corner and slowly slides down the building wall. He can't breath. Through his teeth, calm down. This is not the first time he'd dealt with this, having a name to call it doesn't change anything. It's still just his damn breathing thing. Clint sits there for close to 20 minutes before his body lets him even attempt to stand and walk back to the building. He's light headed and his chest is still tight, still not allowing him to take a full breath. Phil wanted to see him after his training, so Clint  walks to the office, slowly and coughing a few times. He slides his badge and enters the office when the green light flashes.

Clint has never been so thankful of the couch in Phil's office as he is when he flops into it, leaning forward to try and ease some of the pressure around his lungs. Coulson raises an eyebrow at the teenager.

"You okay?" The OC spray had gotten into his hearing aids and everything sounds more muffled than it should, or that could just be the limited air talking.

"Yeah. I'm fine." Talking takes more effort than it should. "What's up?"

"I just got your first mission. Are you sure you're alright because you don't sound too good."  Phil stands, walks towards the couch where his asset is sitting,  and gives him a good once over. " Clint are you sick?"

"Nah. It'll go away by tomorrow, whatever." Only a few times had he had trouble for days in a row. "So, mission?"

"Okay Ali Sherban, human trafficking. We want you to get intel, then we'll send someone in to take him out." Phil watches as Clint takes a deep breath, blowing it out slow.

"Why send someone else? I passed my gun eval." He looks in pain and Phil wonders if he needs to drag out the first aid kit.

"We can't have you...dispatch anyone until you turn 18. Are you sure you're okay?" Stupid rules, Hawkeye could easily take out Sherban, but SHIELD wouldn't let him until he was an adult.

"Coulson I'm fine. I've been dealing with this shit forever." He let's out a long fit of increasingly breathless coughs, pulling in a long  wheezing breath.

"Are you having a fucking asthma attack?! You're having a fucking asthma attack. What happened!?" Phil tries not to panic but it's hard to when his brand new asset is wheezing on his couch.

"Pepper spray. That what this is?" He's leaned forward again, trying desperately to catch his breath, to not look weak in front of Coulson. "I don't....what's the definition of...a fucking asthma attack?" Stop talking and breath his brain yells at him. He's fine. Or, he will be.

"Where's your meds?" The inhaler is in the bottom of his bag in the bunk room, not even thought about since medical had handed the box to him.

"Don't need any. Never....had any before." Clint coughs into his hand again, violent and barking.

"Jesus. What do I do?" Phil didn't look this up before, didn't think it would ever happen. Obviously he would now.

"Just give me a few minutes." The kid looks exhausted. "Let me catch my breath."

\------------

It takes nearly an hour. But Clint's chest does loosen and the faint wheeze fades. Coulson moves back to his desk from where he had crouched before the couch, watching Clint carefully.

"You lied. You said your lungs didn't act up anymore." The kid is leaned back on the couch, almost asleep when Phil speaks, a little loud to make sure he's heard.

"Well I didn't expect to get a mouthful of OC spray." He sits up with a groan, faces Phil.

"You didn't panic. That means one of two things, either A) you knew that was going to happen, or B) you are incredibly in charge of an autonomic response to not being able to breath. I'm going with A. Which means, you lied, and I have to update your paperwork now."

"Fine, okay. I've been maced before, I remember what happened." At least his face hadn't burned for hours this time.

"Clint, I am going to ask this. And I need the real answer this time. How bad are your lungs?" He hopes the kid gets it.

"Not...bad. I mean...never bad enough to actually see a doctor. But, my brother worried about it. I passed out once during a show, think I was like 14. He freaked. Almost dragged me to a clinic, even though money was so tight we were lucky to eat some nights. And I spent all my spare money on batteries. So....not horrid. But, it happens, I get a mouthful of dirt, or pepper spray, or fucking.... elephant shit fumes, and I'm all gross and wheezy and my chest hurts for the next couple hours." A few times it'd lasted days. When he was sick, a cold turned into a chest infection and he'd be down for almost a week.

"When was your last attack?" The teen sighs, runs a hand over his face.

"You were following me in Texas right?" Phil nods. Clint had taken out a coyote who'd been milking people for more money once they'd crossed the boarder. "Remember the dust storm?" It'd had been a dry summer, about a month ago when the hit had taken place. Phil nods again. "Had me layed up for about 2 days.  Hid in the attic of a library to stay out of it and away from you." They'd lost the trail. Thought that Hawkeye had moved on.

"So it hasn't gotten better as you grew up?" Clint looks down, ashamed, and then nods slightly. "You got a handle on it?" Another small nod, after be lifts his head up to look at the older man. "What's sets it off?"

"Stuff in the air mostly. Dust, fumes, smoke  sometimes, it isn't always that bad. Sometimes I just can't really breath enough, or I'll be coughing really bad, those are the times that it doesn't slow me down much. Pepper spray seems to be the worst I've found." It's quiet, enunciated carefully and Phil watches as the blond runs a hand over his face again, resting his hand near his left ear. "I'm the almost deaf kid who's lungs don't always work. It's a damn good thing I can shoot well."

"You said you never had medication before, why not?" The lack of notice in his medical records was interesting.

"I didn't even know what it was called. I mean...it makes sense. That the damn breathing thing I have is asthma. I remember back in school, one of my friends had it, and I never really made the connection between the word and that memory and what was going on with me." He shrugs again.

"So it hasn't been your whole life?" Clint shakes his head no. "Why did you lie about it? This is serious."

"I thought you wouldn't keep me around. You kept...being nice...and I knew how much your ass was on the line for me. I didn't want to admit to something else being wrong with me, since the hearing thing is hard to hide, and you knew about it already." He shifts his position, slumping forward more.

"Clint...we told you that it didn't matter. Your physical was to see what your baselines were like. And to see if there was anything seriously wrong with you. Obviously, it took us a while to catch you and you made quiet a name for yourself. If you had anything that would keep you out of the field we would have figured it out. They tested you, yes you have asthma, and you can't hear for shit. No one ever said either of these things would stop you from entering the field. Nor will your fucked up knees or your nearly blown out shoulder." Medical really wanted to fix the archers right rotator cuff before anything else, but Clint wouldn't agree to it.

" 's why I shoot my bow left. I'm left handed, mostly, but...I learned to shoot right. Switched after Monaco." The year that the hits had been  noticed. Arrows in the throats of a spattering of people across the globe. "Hurts too bad to keep up on the right." His eyes are downcast again.

"We figured. The angle was different the first few we found. Once we looked at your imaging results it was obvious." Radiology hadn't been happy at all.

"Yeah. I've always practiced both sides, but my act...it was right dominant on the bow. Knives were switch, there is no angle on those." Phil watches as he rubs knuckles against his sternum.

"Chest still hurt?" Phil had Googled while Clint had tried to recover.

"A little. Should be gone by the morning. So....mission?" He looks hopeful.

"We just need someone to watch Sherban. Maybe take a few photos. You can lip read right?" It was a reason they choose Barton for the op.

"Yeah. Fairly well at least. It's not a science, but ..." He shrugs and motions to the side of his head. Purple aids slightly visible.

"Perfect. Just translate what you can. They should be speaking in English for the most part. I'll be running communications from a location not too far away. Let's go over phrasing. And comm chatter."

\--------------

When Clint falls into his bed that night the slight wheeze has returned and he knows he hasn't cleared all the mace from his lungs. The invisible bands around his chest are back and he knows sleep won't be coming easily. He's willing to try the medication, to see if it eases anything. He isn't willing to admit he doesn't know how to use the damn thing. Pills would be easy, take whatever number it tells you to take and wait. An inhaler takes directions, ones he's never had and only seen used a few times.   So he fights it like he has for years. 


	9. The Badge

   -Four Months Later-

 

         He's got 3 good starter missions under his belt by the time he graduates from the Operations Academy. It's average for a sniper going for Agent status, they all get sent out on quickie runs before that graduate because they're aren't many good ones. And not a single one that has ever gone through the training as good as Barton.

         His level one badge is handed over at the ceremony that seems to make him nervous, but not nearly as much as it could, or would have just a few short months ago. He's become who they made him into, but he's also still just the 17 year old carnie they picked up in Peoria. A little older, a lot wiser, a little more steady, and much less skin and bones. He passed the psych qualification, and after a few sessions with a shrink, they figured it out. He's not crazy, but he is damaged. The anxiety disorder is diagnosed officially, but the sniper is deemed stable enough to avoid medication, for now at least. The IQ test proves Phil's theory that Clint is actually very very smart, scoring him in the mid 150's. He's just uneducated, which is being fixed as they go along. Languages and math look easy when Barton tries them, complex physics and targeting calculations he can't explain how he just…knows them.

       "You made it." Phil sees the nod from the archer as he says goodbye to one of the other students he graduated with.

       "Sometimes barely." The little half nervous smirk that Coulson see's a lot more often now.

       "Ready for advanced training?" Level one is just the beginning, now he's got to be ready to go anywhere and be anyone at anytime.

       "Well, I guess I have to be right? Where to boss?" Phil Coulson is officially the handler in charge of Hawkeye from this moment until termination or transfer.

       "Follow me, you need a med clearance before we ship you off to train with the other snipers." He's one of 10 active long range specialists currently at SHIELD, the other 9 are out doing maneuvers in the desert of California.

     "Joy. And then…you know actually joy. Do I get to whoop their asses or should I sandbag?" Turns out, Hawkeye can make nearly any shot, and miss on purpose by just enough to make it look like he really did try.

     "Show them what they're up against for promotions now." It means go for it.

     "Awesome."

\------------------------------

 

     Two weeks later Phil gets a call from Marcus (who's running the 4 week program), he's at his desk going over a new asset report when his cell rings.

     "This is Coulson."

     "Please allow me to be the first to tell you that your asset is completely insane. Also, please try to convince him that reducing his own dislocations in not okay and he can totally have pain killers for that shit now. "Marcus doesn't seem angry or upset, its all said with a tone of brevity despite the message. "Aside from that, he's incredible. Even with one shoulder taped all to hell by the onsite medic, he's still out performing the level 5s out here, gun and bow by the way. He keeps requesting his bow but medical says no." Of course they would with a shoulder injury.

     "So, what's the call for?" Crazy isn't new, the kid is a carnie at heart, he can't possibly be sane.

       "He's being recommended for the Marine course, but we don't know if he can." SHIELD sent agents off to various military branches for training all the time, sending agents to the Marine's for hand to hand and sniper school was not uncommon at all.

       "What's the problem?" Age fits, and he's got the right chip on his shoulder attitude to pull it off easily.

       "Three words: Purple hearing aids." Crap, yeah they were pretty noticeable. "Also, the others have reported that there's been at least 2 days out here when he was coughing pretty bad. Marine training would kill him or get him killed."

         "I can set it up for him to be classed as an 'unaffiliated government employee' he'd be doing just the close combat and long range classes. Nothing more." They'd sent a female agent through not too long ago, back when Phil was still just a field operator and didn't work in the back as well.

       "Do it." He ends the phone call.

 

\----------

        "Coulson I have a question?" He doesn't stop talking on comms...ever. Phil has a little bit of a theory about that being his way of making sure the link is good and the double radio set-up isn't malfunctioning.

        "Ask." He isn't boring in what he talks about at least, unlike some of the other more talkative assets Phil has dealt with.

        "So, since I'm 18 now does that change anything?" There's a pause, a deep breath and the faint tang of a bow string recoiling. "Tracker set on target."

         "No, except we let you actually take out the targets now if you need to. And maybe you get a few more high profile missions we couldn't send a minor on." The metal on metal sound of an arrow nocking, always ready for the next target.

       "Good. Do you think I'm too childish?" Well that's unexpected.

        "No, why?" He hasn't heard anything about that yet.

        "Well, some of the guys, especially in the Marine course, they would talk about me when they thought I couldn't hear them, but you know I can read lips pretty well. They would always talk about how I was too young, not experienced enough. And then I get back and I see someone talking about how I'm a kid, and that you put too much trust in someone not even old enough to drink." There's a muffled gunshot a few seconds after the transmission ends, as Phil is formulating his response. "Not spotted....they are angry though."

        "Keep eyes open. People say that because honestly, you don't look like an 18 year old, you look closer to 15. And people, especially those here that saw your code name on the watch board before we brought you in, who know your stats...they don't always believe a kid in their eyes, should have that many confirmed kills." Another few muffled gunshots.

       "Spotted. Advance with A or B?" Plan A had him shooting back, and B had him retreating.

        "A."

        "Roger." And Phil listens to the gunfight through his assets mic, the twang of the string and then the retort of his glock as he switches to the less traceable weapon. Confuse the target, make them think there's multiple assailants around them.


	10. Rooftops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its been a while, I'm sorry.
> 
> So have a chapter that I've been planning for awhile

       "He's missing." Hill knocks on Coulson's office door, even though its open.

             "You better not mean my asset." Her face says she does. "Shit. Okay I'll find him."

\------------

             It only takes him a half hour (give or take) to find the kid (and shit, he's still not even a legal adult). He's on the roof of the training complex, the tallest building on the SHIELD compound. He likes high places, and Coulson is his handler for a reason, so he's figured this out a while ago. Clint is on the edge, doesn't even turn when Phil opens the door, just continues to swing his feet. There's a more than half empty bottle of Vodka set to his left, along with what looks like a pack of cigarettes with the lighter on top. Phil doesn't know what to think right away, but it looks like a bad suicide scene in a cheap movie. So, Phil does what any self respecting SHIELD agent would do and walks toward his asset, making sure his steps are silent (however useless that is) and his shadow isn't visible to the archer. He both grabs the back of Clint's hoddie and knocks the lit cigarette to ground and pulls him (Jesus he doesn't weight much) down off the edge.

               Before he knows what's happening he's falling backwards, and years of circus asshole's and having an older brother have trained him well to respond in a split second. Not that it does him much good as he almost immediately ends up on his face. The alcohol must have slowed his reaction-or yup. That's Phil not Barney. That explains it. Oh well. And he starts laughing.

               "What the fuck!?" Clint doesn't actually know what Phil says but he assumes its something along those lines. And he's being rolled into his back, but somehow his arms stayed pined (and yeah that’s defiantly the vodka because he's usually a lot more slippery). "What the fuck are you thinking?!" He see's it that time, but his hearing aids are in his room and its pretty fuzzy.

               "Hey Phil." He stops laughing to cough a few times.

               "You trying to kill yourself or something?!" Oh, now he knows why Phil is mad. Most people don't like to get drunk on the edge of the building.

                 "Fuck no." He starts struggling, suddenly unable to stand being held down. "Let me go!." And FUCK he's talking to Coulson…to Phil, when he can't hear himself. He's doing what he promised never to do, and he locks down. Keeps fighting the arms and the knee holding him down. He's hyperventilating, can feel the air getting stuck in his throat and more so, in his lungs. The arms release after what feels like a lifetime of ceaseless struggling. He scrambles away, on his toes and hands, one knee positioned up near his chest, so he can push off if need be.

               "Hey. Hey. Its okay." Phil is trying to look non-threatening and Clint drops the defensive stance, fumbling with slow limbs to flop back to the concrete. "Clint, its okay." He's coughing again, horrible air stealing coughs. Phil says something else as Clint flops the rest of the way onto his back and catches his breath. "Alright, lets get you inside and sobered up." And he's being hauled to first his knees then his feel, but he doesn't fight it. It's not like being held down, its just one hand guiding him. It's okay. "You owe me a full explanation once you can string from than 3 words together." And oh, that’s a challenge if he ever heard one.

                   "Drunk on a rooftop at 3 in the morning. Ha…." He counts the words on his fingers. "9 words. 9."

                   "Good job kid, you proved me wrong. Now, time to sober up."

                                             _They almost fall a few time's going down the stairs._


	11. A Thump in the Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TaDa! Wow, 2 chapters in less than what ? 3 months or something crazy like that? Well, good news for you all, there's a couple of misc. chapters that needed to occur after this one that are sitting in my one note right now, so its just connecting those and you all get some angst (if you like that) and definitely some comfort because Phil is fabulous and I'm not giving him back okay?

         Phil looks over when he hears a thump from across his living room, and see's Clint sitting on the floor looking a little dazed and vaguely nauseous. "Wanna explain what happened last night?" He doesn't expect a response, but the singular finger shown in his general direction makes him huff out what could almost be perceived as a laugh. "Figured. Get some water, take a shower, then we'll talk." Phil continues once he see's Barton look back at his face. And he gets a nod in response as the hungover kid gets to his feet.

\---------------

         "So, do you have an explanation? Or am I scheduling you an appointment with psych?" Clint shakes his head 'no', and Phil isn't sure which portion the answer is too. "I'm going to need words this time."

           "I…I just…needed to." He's really quiet. "Sometimes….people, things, it just gets to be too much. And here, I can't run away, I can't…just disappear for a few days, or a week or two." He shrugs, stares down at his coffee cup, and Phil is just impressed he hasn't puked yet, or looks even slightly like he's about to. "My hands were shaking. And I…I couldn't…couldn’t make them stop. So, I got my hands on a bottle of vodka."

           "And the cigarettes?" He shrugs again, still looking down, but Coulson knows he gets what he says. "You know those aren't good for you? Let alone the fact that they're deadly in there own, but have you forgotten that your lungs don't always agree with you?"

           "That's why. That…its why I smoke sometimes. Because it…it makes something as out of my control as..that, it puts it in my hands. I can control it for once. Takes 2 cigarettes to get me coughing, 5 before its hard to breath." He looks ashamed of this, and Phil knows that he isn't going to like what Phil is thinking here.

           "Were you anxious? Before, is that why you couldn't stop shaking? You just…felt like the walls were closing in?" There's a slow nod before he drains his coffee cup, wiping his hands down his stained blue t-shirt, the same one he'd been wearing under the hoddie the night before. "Clint, do you think maybe…you had an anxiety attack? Because your psych report said you might."

             "How the fuck would I know?" His voice breaks on the curse. "Seriously? The shrink, you…you all ask if I'm 'experiencing anxiety', and then you give me a list of symptoms that could be anxiety, and I don't fucking know! Alright? How hard is that to grasp? Half the time I don't even know what those symptoms are, and when I do, okay yeah, maybe I do experience flashes of adrenaline, but you're bound to when a bullet lodges into the side of your snipers perch, not 6 inches from your face." He's not angry, even though his words are punctuated in a way Coulson isn't used to hearing from the sniper. "Sometimes my hands shake, and yeah…you handing me that butterfly knife helped, and I think that proves how messed up I am, but…I.Don't. Know." Phil has seen this before, and it actually helps support his theory.

               "Just…if it gets like that again, please Clint, just let me know. Please. Let me know if the world is closing you in, if you need to escape, I'll help you, without you scaring everyone and making the people that care about you think you're going to jump off the damn roof. Okay? Please, just…let me know. We'll come up with a code word or something. Or-better idea, you come up with a sign for when you feel closed in. So people don't hear it and you don't have to say it." Clint's nodding along to that. "Because, Clint…your reaction to me on the roof? That was textbook. I'm pretty sure you had an anxiety attack."

             "Least know I know what it feels like..." And he shrugs again. "Not the first time, you know that. I just....I want it to stop, you know? The...everything. It's like I'm a spring with too much tension or a tight rope that someone looped an extra time around the scaffold. Like...when someone touches me, or I move wrong, it's like...everything is focused on me, and don't get me wrong, I love being center stage, but...it's like being electrocuted on a low setting. And it builds and builds and...I crack." Phil won't mention if there's tears in his eyes. "Why? Phil, why does this happen to me? Why can't I be normal for once?"

           "You are not broken. God, how many times do I have to tell you this?"


	12. Target Aquired

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its a...yeah its a filler, but its not...as bad as it could be? I needed something to fill the age gap but I promise the next chapter is actually a double length one so...that's kinda a good thing I guess?

"You're next target is the Black Widow." Phil drops the file in front of his asset. He flips the papers open to the first page.

       "There's been agents after her for years." The changes in the archer had been subtle over the last (almost) 2 years. But, if you looked at a picture of the 17 year old they'd picked up, and the nearly 19 year old sitting across from Phil, it'd be obvious. He's a couple inches taller (thank god because he was short before), he doesn't look skinny anymore (although medical says he's underweight still), but its also that he isn't as..shy, anymore. He doesn't hide behind his bow. He isn't only confident on the range, and SHIELD is willing to give him the highest profile mission they've got, mostly due to his proving that he is the one they think he is. It's always been obvious he's the right Hawkeye, there isn't anyone who could make the shots that he can, no one as skilled with a bow and a few arrows. Or even with a gun. "Why are they giving me the objective?" And he isn't afraid to speak now. They've given him a few good undercover missions, even a couple of deep cover ones. He's proven that he isn't only good with projectiles, he's good with making a story on the fly. Yes, he's had a few missions go bad, a couple of injuries that took a while to heal, he's actually coming off a 2 month hold due to a fractured left arm (and medical had taken the chance to fix the misaligned fractures in that arm).

         "Kid, we know alright? Don't lie to me, you've run into her before." He drops his feet off Phil's desk (something he's recently started doing). He rolls his eyes and leans forward to put his elbow's on the desk.

         "We had the same target once. Needless to say, we both took credit for it." Clint shrugs and Coulson can see the very edge of a piece of tape along his arm.

           "Who really took the target out? " This has Phil intrigued.

           "I did." Its collected, calm. Not a lie or a confidence boost, he really did. "I can see the disbelief in your eyes. She's fast…Natalia can kill anyone in hand to hand, she's ruthless, relentless. Now, here's the thing. I can take a hit, she can dish them out. She's…really good on her feet. But it doesn't matter how fast you hit, or how quick you can crack a neck, a bullet will be faster. I might have left that room with at least a few cracked ribs, but, as a…god I was probably 16 when I met her, I managed to hold her off long to not only draw my pistol, which she was trying to get by the way, but I squeezed off three shots before she dropped me."

           "Could you do it again?" He waves his head back and forth, thinking.

           "Maybe. She'll be faster, stronger. It'd be a more…even fight. But I'd still lose. We both know I might qualify as advanced in hand to hand but it's not my strong suit. I could probably hold her for a while, at least a few minutes, depending on weapons involved and how much she's improved parallel to my own improvement." He cracks all his fingers and shrugs again.

           "That’s good enough for me. Read the file, there's no time table on this one, we've been after her a while, you're the next agent to get sent after her. Get back to me by tomorrow. " Clint nods, pops to his feet with the file in hand and kicks the chair in carefully before leaving the office.

\-----------------

           "Hey Phil." Clint has gotten a lot more comfortable with phones over the past few years and the cell ringing at roughly 2 in the morning isn't weird, since the sniper keeps some pretty odd hours.

             "Speak, or hang up, because I might fall back asleep on you." He doesn't even open his eyes.

             "She'll be in Brazil in about 3 months. I know her patterns, she'll be there. Give me 48 hours to figure out where in Brazil." The line clicks as Clint hangs up and Phil is once more impressed with the archer's ability to read between her lines.

 


	13. Sao Paulo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright so this chapter breaks the one page one chapter rule but for good reason, I couldn't get it stop and it wouldn't have any of my trying to find a good chapter break point.
> 
> Also, this chapter deals with a medical issue front and center, and its the point really of the chapter, with the subplot being the advancing story line...if that makes sense at all. So, in saying this, if I got anything seriously wrong let me know, my friend helped me with the medical stuff, but it could be wrong.
> 
> Also, this chapter was one of the first ones that popped into my head when I plot bunnied from this fic, so its been a long time coming

 

     Phil counts 6 times that his asset goes back into the building. 6 times he risks being taken out by the black widow that he makes the conscious decision to go back into the hospital. In the 6 trips he evacuates over 20 terrified kids, carrying the smaller ones and herding the older ones out. Coulson is worried about his asset being taken out by the femme fatal, but he's also proud. This is what he saw in Clint Barton that made him more than just Hawkeye, more than just a merc. He cared, and had a moral compass that no matter how ambiguous was definitely on point to north. Coulson told him not to go back, but he'd said that the kids would die and went anyways. Not once but 6 times. It's on the 5th trip that Coulson hears it the first time. A series of hacking coughs that when finished left Phil hearing stilted wheezes and the obvious conscious slowing of breathing.

       "Hawkeye get out of there." He's already ordered it twice, maybe three times by this point.

       "One more trip and I'm done." He sounds done already. But at least he seems to have caught his breath at least sort of.

     An hour after he pulls the last of the children from the hospital Hawkeye makes it to the safehouse. Coulson is watching him stumble through the protected stairwell on the security cameras. His bow is collapsed down and in the special made backpack he has slung over one shoulder. His hair is stuck straight up and the high definition on the cameras show that he's switched from his in ear field hearing aids to the purple over ears, and tossed a grey hoodie on. He blends in to the local populous, the devices on his ears helping to make him appear as zero threat. He watches as the kid leans over, one hand braced on the wall and the other pressed to his sternum, before he straightens with effort and types the code into the door, the knob scanning his prints and allowing entry. Coulson is at the door in a second, taking in the shaking and the open mouth (he's having a hard time breathing, it's obvious), the little burns up and down his forearms.

       "Christ Clint, sit down, I'll get the medical kit." He wonders vaguely if an extraction is in order, with how badly the archer is wheezing.

       "Just need a shower." It's quiet, and seems to take far too much effort. Coulson slides the bag off Hawkeye's shoulder and looks up to see the most pleading look he's ever seen on the kids face.

       "If you're not out in 10 minutes I'm coming in." Clint nods and breaks off into another coughing fit, one worse than Phil had heard over the comms. He's gasping by the end, Phil's hand on the younger man's shoulder might be the only thing keeping him standing.

\--------------

       The shower is on full blast and Clint wedges himself up against the wall, knowing the steam should help. It's bad. Really bad. Like the time he passed out in the middle of the big top bad, maybe even worse. At least that time he'd been able to fake being okay before it got worse, this time he couldn't do anything. Dizzy and weak, the world fading in and out. Every time he tries to breath in his body is rejecting it, and refusing to give up what little air makes in down into his lungs. His fingers fumble to remove his vest after he finished fighting the hoodie, trying everything, anything, to release the nearly unbearable pressure around his lungs. Coulson is gonna find out, there's no way 10 minutes is gonna fix this. He's gonna pass out, and hopefully when he does, his lungs decide to work well enough that he doesn't die. He's coughing again, black spots growing in his line of sight, he doesn't even have enough air to fully cough at this point. _Please Phil don't let me die_. He knows this can kill him, however mild they called it originally, they'd also said he was required to have his inhaler in his mission gear in case of a severe and or life threatening attack. If this wasn't that, then what was? _Don't let me die from something this stupid._

There's knocking on the door and words he can't make out, still fighting for even an ounce of air. Phil opens the door and Clint tries to look at him, but gets blindsided by a fit of coughs that leave him with his eyes squeezed shut and all focus on just trying to freaking breath.

     "Goddammit. Alright, where's your inhaler kid?" Bag. It's in the duffle on his bed. But saying that is out of the question right now. "Where its supposed to be?" YES. It's in the duffle where it belongs. He nods. "Okay, I'll be right back. Stay awake." _Thanks captain obvious._ He makes it somehow, Phil dropping to his knees with a painful thud, shoving the device at Clint.

       "Can't." He still doesn't know how to.

       "Alright, I'll help you out." He's too out of it to pay attention. "On three, alright. Deep as you can on three." Okay, breath on 3 got it. "One...two....three." Coulson puts the plastic to his mouth and when he says three there's a taste in his mouth, but he tries to breath it in. Tries to do it. "Alright, one more time." They repeat the process and Clint realizes the invisible chains around his chest are loosening, and instead of a blocked straw it's like he's breathing through a stir stick. It's helping. He's still having trouble breathing no doubt, but....he doesn't think he might die now. "One more, you do it this time okay." He's got it figured out, he thinks at least. And this time, having control over it, he feels like he gets more in. He's panting after a minute, the air finally reaching starving lungs. "There you go." Coulson sits back on his butt, sighing and running a hand over his face. "Jesus kid." He's exhausted though, so instead of the reaction he wants to give, Clint simply revels in the fact he can breathe, not well, but he can.

       "Fuck." He's staring at the device held tightly in his left hand. "Holy crap." Thank god he'd made it back to the apartment. Thank god Phil had known what to do even if he hadn't.

     "Just breath, take it easy Barton. I'm going to call medical and see if they recommend an extraction." He's pulling out his encrypted cell before he finishes while the marksman tries to stop hyperventilating. Clint vaguely recognizes Coulson giving his code to the phone tech, he's not watching Phil's face, but his voice is familiar enough that Clint can figure out certain words just from the patterns. "Yeah this is Coulson, situation on mission number A729C." There's a pause then he continues. "Assert has a preexisting medical condition that has been exasperated by current situations." They're probably pulling up his file. Actually....he messes with the buttons on his hearing aids until they make the deep tone that means the Bluetooth is activated, and since they're programmed to be compatible with SHIELD technology, Phil's phone doesn't reject them. And he knows that since the tech isn't perfect, Phil will still be able to hear through the phone too.

     "Uh...which one? Your asset has a few. Are we talking about the joint problems or the asthma?" He doesn't have joint problems.

     "Yeah the second one, he's okay now, but it got pretty hairy. Any advice for the rest of the mission? Or should I be calling an extract instead?" Coulson looks over at Clint, who still thinks he's wheezing but only as badly as a few cigarettes make him.

       "What caused the attack?" Well that's an easy one.

       "There was a fire, he ran into it 6 times." The medic scoffs. "In my defense I ordered him not to."

       "Yeah yeah yeah, whatever. Uh...as long as he doesn't get any worse I'm not going to recommend an extraction, tell him one dose every...let's go 2 hours for the next 10 hours then every 4 to 6 after that until the mission is over and we get him in here. Use more if necessary."

       "And if it gets worse again?" Clint really really hopes it doesn't.

         "Then call for extraction because there's something going on other than a bad asthma attack. Make him drink some water and take it easy for the next however long he can, I know how field missions go. Oh, and as of....right now, he is now under strict orders to have rescue medication on his person until medical can do a full workup and report." Clint is stupid happy that the medication worked and worked as well as it did.

         "Alright, thank you." The line disconnects. "I still think it's hilarious when you eavesdrop. So did you get all that?"

         "Got it." He knocks his head backwards against the wall. "I need a fucking nap." And maybe a beer or two but Coulson doesn't like it when he says that.

           "Well the couch is gonna have to do because I'm not letting you out of my sight."

\---------

     -It's been 2 hours. Meds.- comes into focus on the phone screen as he wakes up. It feels like there's cinder blocks on his chest, like the dust storm a while back. His hearing aids slip back into place over his ears, the buttons are pressed and the muffles clear into LOUD.

       "Already?" He's in sweat pants and a ratty T-shirt that's been washed a few two many times.

       "Yeah, think you can eat something?" The very thought of eating makes his stomach hurt.

       "No, sorry." His slur is creeping back in, as Coulson has often noticed happens when he's tired. "When's the meeting with Escarzaga?"

       "Ten hours from now, so you leave in about nine. You gonna be good to go?" He looks like shit. The drugs help loosen his chest back up and he shuffles to the bathroom.

       "I'll be good, don't worry." Clint clears his throat then turns around toward Phil. "Done shows with worse, I can do a meet and set no problem." They hadn't changed how Clint did meet and sets from how he'd done them as a lone mercenary. The point is to meet in a public area, and not to stand out at all. So, being a pretty much deaf teenager actually helps in most situations, and the mark (target) never thinks the hearing aids are real, because it's a great cover. And him being as sick as he is (even though Clint won't admit it) will help sell it this one time.

       The meet goes fine, Coulson listening in the whole time. His sentences are shorter and harsher than normal, and Phil thinks it might be because his asset is still having a bit of difficulty breathing. Coulson calls it a success, the next meet up set for 3 months down the line, and they climb into the Quinjet that serves as the extraction vehicle. Coulson keeps an eye on his asset as he claims a bench seat and proceeds to curl on his side and pull his hoddie over his face.


	14. Aquired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Black Widow and the boy in the hoodie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dear lord I am horrible at this updating thing, but here it finnaly is I guess
> 
> sorry its probs trash

           It all starts when Hawkeye goes AWOL for 22 hours in Cholula Mexico. He isn't even supposed to be there, but for reasons previously unknown he'd traded with another agent for the assignment. Now, of course, Coulson knows why. He disappears off the map only a few minutes after he gets into position, and at first they write it off as a comm failure since while rare, they do happen. It takes the team over 5 hours to realize that no, the system didn't crash, the ex-carnie hacked it and killed the radios and locators, masking his own get away with a continuously pinging GPS signal. People do have a tendency to underestimate him, and well, he has a tendency to exploit that. Coulson has a stack of paperwork on his desk by hour 7, but he's in Cholula by hour 6.6, so the paper will have to wait.

           It always amazes Coulson how people can see and work with Barton for mission after mission and still take the country hick at face value. They fail to see the highly intelligent young mercenary behind the mask, and he makes sure to tell that to the team lead who allowed his asset to take off like this.

           Hour 22 brings a phone call and a request for sea landing on the carrier. Coulson does the standard status checks, makes sure that Barton has every opportunity to tell him in some code that he isn't secure. That someone is manipulating him. He says its all clear, and tells Coulson he has a passenger, also secure and good to go. Coulson trusts Hawkeye, for some unknown reason at this point, since the kid seems to always be doing something to get on his bad side recently.

          Its raining and a full blown storm is on the horizon as he pulls the small boat into dock 15 starboard. Clint looks over at the redhead next to him, knowing what's about to happen. "Talia, I can't promise anything except that Phil Coulson is a fair man and Nick Fury will listen to him. This won't be easy, but you...you're tough right?" Last time he saw her she was escaping through the back of the hospital, but she'd helped him evacuate the top 2 floors first. She's ragged, barely holding on to her porcelain doll appearance. Clint knows her well enough to know she's on the edge. He's been there and he knows what its like to be staring off that edge, over that cliff, into that abyss. He pulls the hood up on his jacket, not because of the rain, but to cover the gash on his head until he has a chance to explain himself and her. He feels like shit, but not enough to care, had felt like moldy mashed potatoes for weeks, but he needed to find her. She'd let him know that she was ready, and more so, that she was done. It might be old lived religion, or the tales he was told in the circus by the gypsies and the wiccans and the druids, but he knows he can't live in a world where she doesn't exist. They are yin and yang, light and dark, and they are connected. And if he didn't get her, if he didn't take that mission, she would be gone and he would be ruined. He isn't sure where the belief came from, that one of them can't be without the other, but he knows it feels right. "Just breath, I'll talk to Phil and he'll take care of it."

\----------------

It, surprisingly, does go fairly smoothly. Clint tells Phil who the girl is, explains that she wants to tell SHIELD all of the secrets she knows. That she wants to clear her ledger. Barton does, however briefly, end up in cuffs again, until she is secured and he is escorted into a secure holding room. The cuffs are removed and Phil slides into the steel box.

            "What the hell were you thinking? The orders were to take her out." The younger man pushes his hood back, feeling the fabric scrape along the dried blood at the crown of his skull. "Oh Jesus Barton, of course you need stitches, when do you not? Hell, why am I even surprised at all? You disappear for nearly a day, bring back a Russian spy you were sent to eliminate and somewhere along the line busted your skull open. Sounds like a Tuesday to me." Phil drops his paperwork onto the counter and sits in the chair provided. He looks more disheveled then Clint has ever seen him, no tie, shirt untucked and sleeves not rolled but simply pushed above his elbows.

            "She needed help, and she asked me for it. I looked at the situation and I made a calculated decision. She is worth more to this organization alive than dead." His head is fucking killing him and he just wants the light to get turned down about 20 notches and a long ass nap. "Punish me how you see fit, but she is worth it. She always has been and she always will be. And no, I am not, nor have I ever been, in a romantic or sexual relationship with Natalia Romanova."

            "You called her Talia in the dock, you obviously know her well. We will need to know the specifics of every interaction you two have ever had, down to a shared glance in a café. Do you understand me?" Clint nods, wishing for the end of the day, so he can drag lethargic limbs to bed. Even the floor of this holding room looks good right now. "Good, now follow me. Medical for the head wound and I'm suspending you, two weeks. You aren't to leave the carrier or access any mission related items, you know the drill by now."

            


	15. Lost Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I honestly don't know what I did here and that seems to be the way i'm writing right now, as i'm scrawling out chapters and snippets for fics i'm finding myself unable to figure out quiet why i'm doing what i'm doing to these character

Clint isn't expecting the doctor to kick Phil out of the room. He isn't expecting the forced IV in the back of his hand before anyone tells him anything. Then she stops, sits on the rolling stool and stares at him. "You're dehydrated, have a fever of 101.2 and the blue on your nails tells me you're probably anemic. Listening to your chest tells me you have some form of infection, which normally wouldn't raise any flags, except that I examined you 2 weeks ago and you said you were just getting over something. I'm going to go out on a limb here and say it didn't go away. Also, I'm guessing that when I get your lab results back I'm going to find multiple deficiencies and I better not find any drugs." She sighs and shifts forward, holding the clipboard to her knees. "Barton, you got to tell me what's going on. I'm already ordering a few tests and prescribing something to help keep your airways open, since a chest infection on top of asthma is a bad day waiting to happen."

            "I'm just...worn down. Head hurts from the gash, you already said its fine, just ugly as hell. In honesty? I've felt like shit for weeks, and I just keep getting up and doing my job. Its not like I have a choice." He can't explain it, he's just tired.

            "Okay. Right now I think its just some malnutrition and a cold that might have turned into bronchitis, hopefully you didn't end up with pneumonia, because that'd bench you for longer, and I know how much you hate that. Are you having any other symptoms? Nausea, headache, anything out of the ordinary?" Now that she mentions it, his chest does hurt a bit.

             "Eating is hard. Like...no appetite I guess. I'm tired, so fucking tired all the goddamn time. Maybe dizzy? Like my balance is kind of off, uhm..." He shifts to try and relieve the pressure on his chest. "I'm sorry."

             "Why? What's going to show up on the tox screen?" He's looking down at his feet, the fatigue making him unable to focus on the floor.

              "I, might have taken something. Please just understand that I was trying to do my job, and it didn't seem to matter how much caffeine I had, I couldn't stay awake." He looks up at her, trying to make uncooperative eyes meet hers and only kind of failing. "I don't have a problem, I've only even taken it a few times."

               "Amphetamines?" She's seen it before in Agents trying to prove themselves. He nods, and she watches as he tries to take a deep breath and ends up giving up. "Thank you for the heads up. Your suspension just got extended to no less than 30 days for violation of the drug policy, and I'll be notifying Coulson. Now lets figure out the underlying reason, you're obviously sick, and trying hard enough to not let anyone know that you resorted to drugs."

\--------------

             Four hours later Coulson overrides his door lock and busts in looking angrier than Clint thought possible. Clint doesn't protest as he's yanked from the ball he's curled into to his feet. He listens as Coulson yells at him for his stupidity, at least until the world starts spinning and he can feel himself swaying on his feet.

             "Coulson, I-" He would have hit the floor quite hard if not for the older mans quick hands. "Sorry, just...really dizzy." The world is out of focus, colors spiking and dancing, eyes unable to focus.

             "Oh now you're in fucking withdrawal, that's great." He pushes the younger agent into a sitting position and Clint has to swallow to avoid vomiting all over the other mans shoes.

              "No I'm not." He really isn't, he already would have been if he was going to be, since the last pill he took was days ago.

              "Like I'm going to believe anything you say right now? Nice try."


	16. Still Missing Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please enjoy, I know its been too long and I am not particularly happy with this chapter at all

    “Coulson...I know i messed up and i know you don’t trust me right now, and you have every right to.But...I had to save her.” He wants to puke, but he knows there isn’t enough in his stomach to really throw up much more than bile.

    “Barton. Jesus kid, do you remember what you said when I picked you up in Peoria?” Clint nods, he knows where this is going, the rainbow lights in his periphery pulse with his slightly labored breathing. “You said you didn’t do drugs, and I believed you. You seemed like a good one, not a junky. Guess I was wrong and that's all lies. What else was a lie Barton?” He’s monotonous, calm angry in a way that sets Clint’s nerves on fire. Rage he can tolerate, rage comes with fists and thrown bottles, but Clint is grown now, he’s grown and strong enough to fight back now. This...quiet anger...he doesn’t know what to do with this. Maybe if he stands taller it will make more sense, he can put up a front. So he stands.

And promptly blacks out fully.

\------------------------------------   

  The world comes back in short waves of motion, or more so the idea of motion. The slight hum of words around him that don’t make sense. And he blinks his eyes open, lids heavy and sluggish, to see the bright white lights of a hospital room. Someone is tapping on his hand and he turns his head to see Coulson.

    You with me C-L-I-N-T His face makes it a question and focusing his eyes on Phil’s hands takes all the concentration he has.

    “I think so.” He tries to whisper it, and Coulson’s face bears the expression Clint has plastered on in most meetings, slight confusion and the little forward lean of someone unconsciously trying to hear something slightly too quiet for them. “I think so.” He tries again, with a little more force.

    Phil holds the case for his hearing aids up in front of him and Clint takes it with fingers that are shakier than it feels like they should be and it takes more tries than he’ll ever admit to taking to get them into place. “You’ve been unconscious for almost 3 days.” Well that explains the stiffness and the confusion, because the last thing he remembers clearly is sitting in medical getting told he’s suspended.

    “What happened?” He sounds hoarse, even to his shitty ears.  

   “You were poisoned. That’s why you were so tired, it was a biological weapon that, luckily in your case, failed to work as well as it was supposed to.” That makes sense, kind of at least.     “How’s Tasha?” Did they put her in a cell? Did she poison him?

    “Right now? She’s 3 rooms over in her own bed, right now it's looking like she’s patient zero. Don’t worry about your little girlfriend, she’s fine.” Oh, so he is still pissed off at him for...probably everything.

    “I’m sorry.” Apologize early, maybe it’ll work this time.

    “Stop apologizing, you made your choice and it’s over now, you’re still getting a formal write up for the amphetamine use, but...you can stop apologizing for it.” Clint nods, feeling clearer than he has in far too long. “Turns out if you hadn’t taken them...you’d probably be dead. You were only able to stay coherent as long as you did because of the interaction between the poison and the drugs.”

    “Huh. That’s...actually that explains a lot.” His mouth isn’t working fully yet, he can tell he’s slurring a lot more than he normally does.

    “Go back to sleep, I can barely understand you and your last set of blood work showed some of the weapon still working it's hell.”


	17. Natasha not Natalia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this an update? I think it actually is and oh look...actual plot for once that's good. I think this has plot?

          They release him from medical a week later, once the remaining symptoms subside and his blood work is coming back clear. The first thing he does, or rather is allowed to do, is end up on the receiving end of one of Fury's famous rants.

          "What the fuck Barton?" He really is angry, but there's a little part of Clint, the rebellious part that had him joining a circus, that wants to turn his hearing aids off and just let Fury go off. "Alright you know what you little asshole? You think you're good enough to break the rules and stay? I have the perfect punishment for you." He smirks and Clint is actually vaguely worried about what is going to happen.

         "Sir?" He asks when the director doesn't continue immediately.

        "Barton, I'm sending you to the training department. You will be Romanova's immediate supervisor, anything she fucks with it falls on you, seeing as how you made her your responsibility. You are in charge of all her records, and you will be assisting in all of the courses she's going through." What? That's not a suspension…he is suspended, but they want him to assist in courses?

       "Director sir, I don't have the necessary qualification to assist in courses. I barely qualify as having passed most of them." And that is true, he'd barely passed some of the paper heavy courses.

       "You have the rank and skill to assist in hand to hand and marksmanship don't you?" That…sounds more like Fury. That sounds like a punishment. "You'll be handling Romanova and assisting in any course that you are exceptionally well qualified in. Oh, and keeping your mandatory substance abuse counseling appointments while you're at it." Even the doctor had said it didn't seem like he actually had a problem, but he was still required to finish the classes. "Dismissed Barton, I expect weekly updates on her progress."

       As he leaves the room he knows that he has to go tell her this now. Has to tell the girl who is no longer Romanova that he is who she reports to now. Coulson is waiting for him to report back on his disciplinary hearing in his own office.

/////////////

       "Apparently I am now your supervisor." He plays with the food on his plate, not hungry at all. And now that he thinks about it, he realizes that his time in medical and the effects of the weapon have left him without an appetite for awhile.

       "That is acceptable." She ate her own meal at the perfect pace, something Clint has never been able to master, either eating too fast or forgetting that there's food in front of him. "I'd rather report to you than some of these idiots."

       "Here's your schedule. I'll be acting as the assistant instructor for your physical training courses and anything dealing with ranged weaponry. Both of which, for someone of your skill and experience…they're formalities." He pushes a forkful of the chicken whatever into his mouth, knowing that if he doesn't start eating whether he wants to or not, medical is going to throw a fit again and he's in enough trouble as it is.

        "Are you still sick?” She gestures at his nearly untouched plate.

        “No, just not hungry. I have a lot on my mind right now.” At least he hopes that’s what it is, if its just stress he should at least be able to keep down whatever he manages to eat.

        "Why would your handler not take me on? So they could keep sending you out?" Another bite of bland chicken and he can feel his stomach beginning to clench up.

        "They uh…I'm suspended anyways so it doesn't matter." She does not need to know why he is suspended. "I will be for awhile. Hey look, both of us are confined to base, that’s great." He has the urge to adjust his hearing aids, its uncomfortably loud in the mess hall at lunch time.

       "Alright then. Tell me…if this training is…as excepted, am I supposed to wipe the floor with the others? Or am I supposed to be like you, average." She pushes buttons, that’s who she is, and they each other well enough to chide each other like that.

       "As Coulson once told me, show them what they're up against." These new SHIELD recruits needed to know that this small red head was a force to be reckon with. "Don’t go too hard on anyone in sparring matches, we don't want concussed recruits." He has to be the voice of reason, which is so weird he doesn’t even want to think about it right now.

       "If you are assisting, can we spar?" He nods, almost smirks as he pushes his tray forward a few inches. "Do you fight muffled?"

       "You noticed that." He isn’t surprised, she's a master at this and he knows that he does things differently than people with normal hearing do. "It depends on the day, if we're being honest."

       "Interesting. What should I know about these people?" Intel gathering, he expected nothing less.

       "Oh, I can’t ruin all the fun Tasha." Using the nickname instead of the alias on her access badge tells her that he is still on her side.

//////////////////////////////////

       Whatever meager amount he managed to eat at lunch makes a reappearance soon afterwards, not that he was expecting it to stay down really. He's shivering on the cold tile floor of the men's bathroom, a hint of a wheeze every time he breaths out. Whatever this is, it isn’t going away quickly. Medical had cleared him, but he still felt like crap, and now his lungs were crapping out too which was just typical. Clint vaguely wonders if he can hide the rest of the afternoon in Phil's office, or if he is obligated to stay in the training complex while Romanoff (she did not want to keep the Russian name) was there.

      The decision is made for him about 30 seconds into his pondering when the door opens and another agent enters, he scrambles to his feet, almost losing his balance.

      "You look like ass." He's a recruit, his temporary badge swinging from his jacket.

      "Tell instructor Hill that I left for the day. I'll be in Agent Coulson's office if she needs me." There's invisible ropes tightening around his chest now and he should probably leave before he embarrasses himself again.

      "Sir, no disrespect was meant, I thought you were another noobie." He looks terrified.

      "Its fine, you're what, 24?" The brunette nods. "Makes you older than me, rank ain't everything. Good luck." He knows how scared shitless most of the new class is of anyone with a permanent access badge. He escapes the bathroom after rinsing his mouth a few times and trying to catch his breath fully, or at least slow the progression of the attack until he can get to his inhaler.

      "I will pass on the message to Agent Hill." The taller man adds in passing as the door closes behind Clint. Good, he can hide on Phil's couch until his stomach and lungs settle down again. Or the initiation class lets out, whatever comes first.


	18. Dance

        He's twirling a pen around his fingers in a way that Coulson will not admit to having tried (and failed at) before. That's the first thing that he notes when he enters his office that afternoon. The next thing he notices is how the blond is leaned forward slightly, shoulders curled in just a touch, probably subconsciously, like when he's trying to catch his breath and can't fully. He sees the exhausted expression and the way he's starting to look more like he did years ago in Peoria than before this whole Black Widow mess.   
       "Hey Phil." Its quieter than he usually is. Unsure.  
       "Aren't you supposed to be assisting with the new recruit physical testing today?" The pen stops moving and the archer seems to shrink in on himself even more.  
       "I couldn't…I uh…" He's having trouble with words, unable to find the syllables to form coherent phrases.   
       "Are you compromised?" Blue-grey eyes snap up at him.  
       "No. I'm fully capable of performing my current duties without bias. Its…I'm still kind of…sick. I guess." He says it like he doesn't want to admit to it, and Phil is suddenly being faced with the Hawkeye he had brought in. A kid uncomfortable in his own skin and looking over his shoulder every 2 seconds. "Not bad. I don't want to go back to medical." Fear creeps into his tone and Coulson wonders how much he should push.   
      "What do you mean?" He unbuttons his suit jacket and sits behind his desk.  
      "I can't fucking eat, ears feel clogged up…more than they usually do anyways at least. I'm so tired too." He's falling apart. Hawkeye wouldn't be telling him this. Hawkeye resorted to illegal stimulants before saying anything. This is Clint. The kid from nowhere Iowa, the circus performer, the no one who thought he was nothing but a marksman.   
      "Clint…look, maybe you should talk to medical about this. It could be lasting symptoms from the weapon that was used on you. Or…stress. I hate to be the one to say it, but stress can do a lot to the body." His eyes are sluggish, almost like he's drunk, or has just woken up. Or that one op when he'd been nearly in shock from blood loss and still managed to be his own extraction.   
      "Yeah maybe." The kid looks up at Coulson and his eyes tell the older agent everything he needs to know.   
      "Either sit there or go back to your bunk, but if you stay then you're doing paperwork. You're severely behind on mission reports again." A hint of a smile, and the archer is moving from the couch to the sear across from his handler.   
      "Well I am in trouble, so paperwork sounds like a just punishment." Somehow he knows which stack is his without looking (Clint's been working with Phil long enough now to know that if he leaves his paperwork long enough it'll get done for him) and the pen he'd been playing with finds its way into his left hand.   
       "Please be careful not to smudge the summaries this time." Phil has learned the archer, he knows not to mention the way he's chewing his lip, or breathing a little too fast, or the way his right hand is clenching and unclenching rhythmically. He doesn’t mention the obvious anxiety thrumming through him, or  the way he looks worse than he did in medical. Coulson knows that by staying here, doing this paperwork, Clint is telling him that he doesn't want to be alone right now, that he needs someone to watch his back. And the idea that Clint feels bad enough, off enough to not be able to watch his own six...that scares Coulson. That scares him almost as much as the night he found Clint drunk on the roof.  
\-------------------------------

          It takes about another week before he feels anything like himself again, and the time comes for the first progress check in the new recruit hand to hand class that he’s supposed to be assisting in.  
          “Hey, mind if I play dummy for this round?” He’s been bored, and the knowledge that he won’t get his ass handed to him immediately is a good feeling. Hill looks at him sideways and he nods just a tad, enough for her and mostly likely Natasha to see, but subtle enough that the others in the class won’t.  
         “Should be a good test for them, do them a favor Agent Barton, show them what a true Agent of SHIELD is capable of.” So not a test for them then, more of a test for him. Someone must have told Hill that he needs to be evaluated before he can come off of suspension, and for someone of his level, a full eval will have to be more than 1 part. “Rodriguez, you’re up first.” Clint takes his hearing aids out and sets them on the counter next to the instructor podium, taking a few seconds to acquaint himself with the muffles. It’s not that he isn’t used to, just after days of listening the change is obvious.  
        Rodriguez turns out to be a smaller man, quick and lithe, but not very strong. A few seconds of playing around the ring and he gets bored. Clint hooks a foot under the other man's, blocking a punch from the left and striking out his right hand at the same time, following the falling body to the floor to pin him. “Don’t underestimate the power of balance.” He leaves the advice to linger in the air.   
         “Rodriguez, he’s right. Montary, you’re up.” Clint pops his neck and looks at the girl, she’s stocky and looks strong. It’s a bit better of a fight, but he still drops her quicker than it looks like Hill is impressed by.   
         “Alright, enough with the games. Romanoff please make him eat his grin.” Clint is definitely not grinning, but Natasha is. She smirks at him and makes a show of flipping her bright red hair at him before squaring her shoulders.

And the dance begins.  
     


	19. Thank You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think that the next chapter is going to be the last one for this fic but that could change. I'm sorry this took so long to put up, ive had a lot going on in life and i haven't been dedicating at much time to writing as i wish i could be

        They spar for nearly 7 minutes, and by the end both are sweat shined and breathing heavily, Clint far more than her. She tilts her head at him and Clint breaths out through his teeth, figuring he’s picked up a little bit of a wheeze from the sparring match that he can’t hear. He smirks and looks at Hill. 

        “Alright folks, that's it for the day. Barton, over here.” She enunciates well enough for him to lip read, but he doesn’t think she does it for his benefit, Hill is one of the multitude of agents that forgets that Clint has very significant hearing loss despite how obvious he is about it, she’s just exceptionally professional and speaks to match that. He grabs his hearing aids and coughs into his elbow a few times, feeling the slightest tightening around his lungs as they make their frustration known. He won’t let anyone know that though, no one needs to know that since the poisoning his lungs have been worse than ever. “Good job, you’re official eval will be next week but unless something happens I don’t see you failing the combat portion. What’s your opinion on the newbies?”

        “They aren’t bad. I mean...obviously people like me and Romanoff...we’re on a different level than them, I actually had an idea for that, if you’re willing to hear it?” He’d been mulling the idea over for days.

         “You might not know this but your input does mean something to the training department, at least while you’re here under us.” She crosses her arms and raises the left eyebrow into her emaculate hair line.

         “Let me and Romanoff take some of the less successful ones on as a side project. I’m already doing it for the marksmanship courses, let us do that here. Contrary to popular belief we do know how to tone it down if necessary. And she needs the distraction.” He’s noticed it in her movements, she’s going stir crazy being cooped up here in her initial training phase.

         “I’ll approve it if you submit it in writing, and are you sure you can take on another additional duty? You can’t be over extending yourself so close to your re-evaluation Barton.” She’s more concerned with his future than he is, he knows they won’t kick him out (send him to prison) now, at the very worst they’ll ground him to the training department, considering how much the initial marksmanship testing scores have gone up since he started working with the more trigger shy agents. 

         “Please, overextending myself is not a concern here, and look….I need it to alright? I’m going crazy sitting here all….suspended and shit. I’m used to balancing 14 things at once, I’ll email the request over tonight.” He turns and walks away, and Hill says something but he pretends to not notice. 

          Natasha is waiting right outside the training room for them to head to lunch, as has become their habit. “You know, she doesn’t believe you.” 

         “You think I don’t know that? Hill...has a very low level of confidence when it comes to me. I kicked her ass when I was in training and I don’t think she ever forgave me for it.” They have an ease of conversation that Clint doesn’t find very often, even with Coulson he’s apprehensive with speaking sometimes, trying to keep little parts of himself to himself and not let them out in the open.

        “Teach me.” He stops walking and looks at her, hands moving with his mouth as he asks her to repeat herself. “That. Teach me that.”

        “Sign language? Nat, you don’t need to know it. And it’s not like you need another language credit.” Coulson still signs with him sometimes, but not as often anymore, Clint misses a lot more than people think he does, because he’s spent his whole life hiding the fact that he misses anything at all. 

        “I want to know it. You use it, and it’s another language. Like you said, I get bored easily. That version is ASL, yes?” She says it as if even if he refuses she’ll go off and learn it herself. Which he wouldn’t put past her in all honesty. 

        “Fine. Just...I don’t know how to. I know what I know but not nearly enough for it to count as fluid.” His records say he’s fluent but slang and dialect is so varied he’d be lost unless he runs into someone else from the Midwest. 

       “I checked your language specialties record...you are fluent according to SHIELD, so teach me. They had to bring is a different person to evaluate me since I speak so many languages, I want to know more, enough so that it makes them angry.” She’s smirking and Clint busts out laughing, seeing the joke for what it, Natasha’s own little brand of sarcasm. “But really, teach me. Even just for conversation.”

       “Okay.” _ Thank you _ .


End file.
